Poems (Blagden)/L'ariccia

by Isa Blagden

L'ARICCIA. DEATH IN LIFE.

NO. I.

I gaze upon a scene of Arcady.
'Tis noon, and o'er the vales and through the woods
The myriad voices of the summer's hymn
Ring out 'tis noon throughout their solitudes!
Such glittering radiance in the air, that dim
And distant seems the blue and cloudless sky,
As if a space for visioned dreams were given,
The veil withdrawn midway 'twixt earth and heaven,
That, bathed in golden light, the painter's eye,
Seraphic glories in its depths might trace,
Or, leaning down o'er earth, a tender face
(Its sweetness mortal, but its calm divine),
'Fair Nature smiling o'er her chosen shrine!
Ay—Time for once calls back fair Arcady;
And as I gaze, in rapture deep and still,
Before me winding pass through vale and hill,
And through the arches of the wooded glades,
The herds as slow they seek the forest shades,
While wears the sun his noontide majesty;
And first, with watchful eye and steadfast tread,
The broad, disparted crescents on their brows,
Austerely borne, the grey-hued steers have led
The rustic path; and then with antic play,
And many a sidelong bound, grotesquely wreathing
Their wild fantastic horns amid the boughs,
The milk-white goats across the steep banks stray.
It seems as 'twere some sculptured pageant breathing,
A chiselled record of the Pagan Past—
A fair procession bound for sacrifice!
And nought we miss—for even the choral song
And dance is here: where yonder pines have cast
A thicker shade, a joyous laughing throng
Of brown-cheeked girls, with large and flashing eyes,
And ebon locks vine-garlanded are grouped;
And one who, fairer than the rest, has looped
Those scarlet blossoms 'mid the tendrils, flings
High o'er her head her tambourine, and sings
A measured chant, which through the greenwood rings:—

"Our vineyard toils to-day are done,
 Sisters, let us rest,
Each beside her chosen one,
 I on my mother's breast.

"For me, no lover's smile e'er shone,
 Beguiling where it charms;
I seek it not, I envy none,
 Clasped in my mother's arms.

"My love is hers, and hers alone,
 Each pulse of hers a part;
My very life to hers has grown,
 Linked to my mother's heart,

"Ye smile. 'No mother hast thou known,
 -An orphan from thy birth.'
Her tender love, ye all may own
 Our loving mother—Earth.

"But most am I her cherished one,
 She calls me to my rest,
To lay all toil and sorrow down
 Asleep upon her breast!"

I heard a cadence in this simple song,
Which echoed of the Etruscan age, most sweet
And yet most sad: such ever did belong,
To these, the early children of the earth,
Who from her affluent breasts derived their birth,
And knew no other source or end; complete
In them, the sensuous life, and oh! how fair,
The clime which poured its sunshine through their veins,
And with a passionate and raptured heart,
Of Beauty filled all earth, and sky, and air!
Beats that quick fiery pulse no more? remains
Of that intoxicating charm no part?
Ah! yes, there lives by mount and vale and stream,
The Pagan glory, and its soul throbs here
Voluptuous still—lo! where we catch the gleam,
Of yon Bacchante's dark far-floating hair,
Inebriate with joy and life and youth,
Yet with divine, yet half-unconscious sense,
Of Nature’s deep pathetic influence,
In her wild song; the instinct of the south,
This Life luxuriant, fervent, and supreme,
The type and rose and crown of all beneath
The gorgeous mask, the hollow brows of Death!

 

L'ARICCIA. LIFE IN DEATH.

NO. II.

A solemn hymn is ringing through the dome,
 And heavy incense rises through the air,
And from the casements of my village home
 I gaze upon a pageant, sad yet fair.

Again I see the village maidens stand
 Around their fairest one, but she no more
With song and dance shall join the vine-wreathed band;
 For her, poor child, both song and dance are o'er!

Beneath the porch they pause, and on that face,
 O'er which the mantling blush no more will rise,
I gaze, ere earth's maternal close embrace
 Has veiled its fading beauty from my eyes.

Oh what a wealth on that low bier is spread,
 O'er which the curious eye may scan and hover,
Ere all in yon dark grassy tomb be laid
 For the thick waving woods to hide and cover!

The mouth, on which no lover's kiss may press,
 Its rosy promise all untimely pale;
The breast, from which no little child's caress
 Shall draw sweet life, ere its white fount shall fail.

A mist before my yearning eyes has risen.
 Thy fate yet unfulfilled—so young to die!
Ah! not to such as thou is earth a prison,
 Nor death glad freedom from captivity.

Oh! if this earth th' imperfect prelude be
 To the full harmony of heavenly song,
How many a deep-toned chord is mute to thee,
 Thou, to whom yet no tender ties belong!

When angel mothers sing of parent love,
 How musicless thy voice amid the choir,
When lover's faith is sung in courts above,
 Low veiled thy virgin brow and hushed thy lyre.

Some say that death and sleep are twins: have they
 E'er seen Death clothed in garments quaint and rare
Or watched the living sunshine, laughing, play
 On the cold polished brow and waveless hair?

This dumb negation, with the solemn sky
 Shining on its white lips, from all around
Divorced as far as some lone mystery,
 With marble face amid the desert found.

This chill prophetic Presence claims no tie
 With the bright world, around, above, beneath,—
Blank and austere, a crownless majesty,
 Inscrutable—immitigable Death!

And yet she lives: for ever and for ever
 Still floats the solemn hymn throughout the dome
As if it sought, with passionate endeavour,
 To reach all hearts and bear its glad truth home.

Not the dark moral of the Pagan world,
 Its painted cheeks and false illusions fair,
Now here, now past, as when a banner furled
 No longer spreads its blazoned pomp to air.

For them this life was as a dream, and death
 The one reality; with us nought dies.
Beauty to them but transitory breath,
 To us th' eternal smile of paradise!

These gracious scenes, which with a rare delight
 And charm divine have banqueted the eye,
Wore chastened hues to them, and shone less bright,
 Sharing the doom of frail mortality.

With us they claim a bright inheritance,
 And shine emancipate from Death's control—
They perish not with perishable sense,
 But live eternal in th' eternal soul.

And in those spheres towards which our spirits yearn,
 What magic memories will oft arise!
What thrilling records in our souls will burn,
 And moisten, with soft tears, immortal eyes!

Remembered melodies, or blooms divine,
 A line of beauty, or a word of power,
There glow more bright, as on some jewelled shrine,
 Earth's gems are consecrate for evermore.

These Alban hills, these fair Arcadian shades,
 Yon lake's transparent breadth of tenderest blue,
The herds defiling through the sunlit glades,
 This hour's Elysian charm shall oft renew.

These joyous girls, whose eyes dark flashing gleam,
 This poor pale corpse, with locked and stony brow,
Not fleeting shadows of a fading dream,
 But portions of the Everlasting Now.

And thus a palace, stately and divine,
 Each chamber by its guardian angel trod;
In joys eternal lives the soul—a shrine
 Holy and pure, and consecrate to God.

There shall we roam, as in yon home of art,^[1]
 Pilgrims 'midst priceless records, while through all
Echoes the beating of each raptured heart,
 Clear as a fountain's soft melodious fall.

The fountain's music is the hymn of praise,
 That murmurs oft, from yon orbed worlds to this,
The fountain's prismed hues, the blended rays,
 Which there shall merge, past, present, future bliss!

1. Vatican